Friends Protect You
by sherlocked-meriadoc
Summary: "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." "Wrong. Friends protect you." Sometimes all you need is comfort and a friend. (no slash whatsoever)
1. Standing in the Rain

**Standing in the Rain**

**"That night is just a memory, but I still feel you standing next to me. And when I think I hear your voice... All I hear is the rain." **

**-Anonymous**

John missed Sherlock. Sometimes, when he was particularly lonely, and it was raining, he opened the windows just because of Sherlock, because Sherlock loved the smell and sound of rain. John didn't know why, but he didn't question it. Sherlock was Sherlock, after all. But Sherlock was gone now, and John couldn't change it. This night's rain was particularly heavy, fit with thunder and lightning. Sherlock had particularly loved storms. John could see the faint outline of a figure straggling along, and he wondered who on Earth would be on the streets at this hour, when it was raining harder than he'd ever seen in his life. John thought about going out to help, but he didn't bother, though, because it really wasn't very smart to go outside in this weather, nor even _be _outside. All John could do was hope the person got home safely (and John found it very hard not to feel hopeless, sometimes).

John wondered about his blog. Were people still reading it? The last he'd checked, it was over 6 months ago(the figure was just by the door now). But even then, he could recall every word of his last post: _I think this is going to be my last post. So before I leave, leave this blog to ruin, I'm going to say something someone told me a long time ago. I thought it was stupid at the time, but now I realize it was quite plausible. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

·········¤·········¤·········

_"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." _Sherlock had pondered this since 6 months ago, when John had posted it on his blog, and he had thought, _Wrong. Friends protect people, John. _But John couldn't hear him, not from halfway across London, where John didn't know where he was. It was raining horribly, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to do it; not after what he did to John, he just couldn't open that familiar green door with 221B on it... But he had to, for John, so that he knew that Sherlock was alive and not dead as he assumed. _"One more miracle... Don't be dead." _

_I'm not dead, John, I'm not dead. I'm so sorry for what I did... _Sherlock thought, before turning that golden doorknob that opened the door and welcomed him back inside 221B Baker Street.

·········¤·········¤·········

John could swear he hard something dripping on the carpet outside the flat. Thinking quickly (something that rubbed off of him from Sherlock), he grabbed his gun, ready to shoot anyone who was a threat. And so he opened the door. It was Sherlock! He was at the door, in the flesh, and not dead. "I'm not dead,"Sherlock smiled, a real, genuine smile of friendship and caring and regret.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John was so in shock, his mind wasn't working properly anymore. Was this an hallucination, like all those other times? "Yes, it is, John. I thought you were smarter than that." There was that twinkle in Sherlock's eye, that "I'm so sassy" twinkle. "Now, move out of the way, John,"he instructed, "I was out standing in the rain for you, you know."


	2. I Would Never Abandon You

**I Would _Never_ Abandon You**

**"I can go days without talking to you, months without seeing you, but a second doesn't go by when I don't think about you."**

**-Anonymous**

Sometimes, she wondered if he cared. Sometimes, he wondered if she knew. Other times, they both wondered the same thing at the same time and they didn't know it. John thought it strange. He really thought they should talk about those things, because Aranthia was Sherlock's daughter and he had lost her 14 years ago when she was 2 and because John cared about both of them. "14 years, Sherlock,"John had said to Sherlock one day, "14 years. You have to at least _try._"

"I can't, John,"Sherlock replied wearily. "I can't try anymore." John hadn't said anything after this, but he couldn't help but notice the sad look in Sherlock's glance as his eyes flicked downwards. He didn't like seeing his friend sad, because it _hurt _to see Sherlock sad, because Sherlock was hardly ever sad and it worried him. John had a feeling Aranthia was upset, too, because of some unspoken reason. Perhaps it was better to leave it, and it would just pass on and Sherlock would actually do something.

* * *

The latest crime scene had involved an explosion and a family of 3, all of whom had died. The parents had a daughter, 16 by the looks of it. Like Aranthia. Sherlock had made it a point to solve the case quickly, because the daughter (Martha, was it?) only reminded him of Aranthia, and Sherlock didn't want her gone. Not for a second time. She was looking over his shoulder now, actually, hoping to get a peek at the element that killed that family. The element, of course, reacted violently with fire, and resulted in the death of the family and the burning of their house. "It's gunpowder,"he told her.

"But it's not powerful enough to cause that explosion,"Aranthia countered, who thought of herself as smart, but not as smart as Sherlock (even though she was, maybe even smarter).

"This kind of gunpowder,"Sherlock declared,"_was_ powerful enough." As far as Sherlock knew, though, was only up to the fact that this was no ordinary gunpowder. Aranthia fell quiet after that, but only because it was Sherlock and he didn't like being wrong, and neither did she. John didn't bother interfering because he generally thought that Sherlock could at least _try _to talk to his own child, so he just left them as they were, studying the prospect of powerful gunpowder.

* * *

It was raining again, just like when Sherlock came back, and just like when the lady from Cardiff(not the pink lady)had crashed. But it was a danger night that night, for both of the Holmes that were residing in 221B. For Aranthia, it was the nightmares that plagued her,all through the night. Because of this, she hardly ever slept on her danger nights,unless Sherlock was there and not having a danger night of his own. But for Sherlock, it was the tears, the proof that he was just as human as the rest of them. And he was, too-both of them were, at least to John. Sherlock and Aranthia were odd in some places and human in others, but they were never human enough for the rest of the world. They were human enough for John, though, and for John, they were perfectly human.


	3. I Don't Care Anymore

**I Don't Care Anymore**

**"Didn't anyone ever tell you? There's one thing you never put in a trap if you're smart. If you value your continued existence, if you have any plans about seeing tomorrow, there's one thing you never, ever put in a trap... Me."**

**-The Eleventh Doctor**

Sherlock was beginning not to care anymore. It was like everything was falling apart:his life, his friendship with John, the entire life he built at 221B Baker Street... And it had been 3 years since then. But he had returned. And it had been his worst nightmare that when he returned, John would have done something to himself, leaving a note that said, _"You didn't come back to me Sherlock. So I'm coming to you." _He wasn't dead. Everything would fall back into place, though-Sherlock hoped. Every second at 221B that passed, Sherlock thought about John's blog. _"My best friend is dead." _He was John's best friend. He was John's _best_ friend. _"He may be dead..." _Death, death was odd. Why did people die? _"But by God, he will never be forgotten." _John remembered him though, even when Sherlock had "died" and returned, dripping wet, on the door mat.

It wasn't okay anymore, nothing was okay. Sherlock was faintly aware of his daughter's presence in the room, and John's, too, but he was too deep into his Mind Palace to notice. "Ary, what's wrong with your father?"John murmured with his brow creased in worry.  
"I don't know,"Aranthia whispered, a bit scared to bother Sherlock when he was so deep in his Mind Palace. "I think it's because I beat him at Cluedo."John smiled in amusement, because Sherlock always beat John at Cluedo, and with Aranthia, he finally had a challenge. Of course, on occasion Aranthia would beat Sherlock at it and he would sulk for a while. John found it amusing because Cluedo was just a game, but it was a bit upsetting, too. But that was just Sherlock being Sherlock. And the Sherlock that John and Aranthia knew was the one that hid behind his cold, calculating ways.


	4. Heroes Don't Exist

**Heroes Don't Exist**

**"Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."**

Sherlock didn't like heroes. Heroes didn't exist. Heroes weren't real to him. _"Don't make people into heroes, John." _Even if they did exist, he wouldn't be one of them. He was on the side of the angels, and he wasn't one of them. How ironic. _"I may be on the side of the_ angels,"he had told Moriarty, _"but don't think for one **second **that I am one of them."_

"Sherlock, you need to sleep,"John told him. But Sherlock didn't want to sleep. He didn't _need _to sleep. "Sherlock." Honestly, Sherlock was glad John was looking out for him, but he didn't want to sleep right now because he didn't need it. "Sherlock, you've _got _to sleep,"John sighed,"and Aranthia's had a danger night,"he added, because he knew that Sherlock cared what happened to Aranthia. It worked, of course, partly because it was true and because Sherlock was human, just like the rest of them, even if no one else thought so but John.

* * *

No one ever thought _they _were human except for John. No one ever thought so, not even Anderson, who was quite stupid(like everyone else)in Sherlock's opinion, and quite easy to fool(like everyone else on the planet). But things were different now; Sherlock had John to keep him company, he had John now. But Aranthia-he thought he'd never find her, not after what Mycroft had done with her: taken her away and not lifting a finger to help him find her after she was hidden behind web after web of lies.

* * *

Sometimes, Sherlock wondered how many times he had thought of actually killing himself, just to spare John the shock of him coming back. But he couldn't do that, not to his best friend, who didn't even want Mrs. Hudson, the kindest, most supportive lady in the world, to see his tears. Sherlock didn't need John or Mrs. Hudson to see _his _tears. He wondered about the pain it caused John, just to think about it. He'd visited Sherlock's grave, where he really wasn't buried, every single day and it _hurt._ It hurt to see John like that, to be so upset over something that never even happened. But sometimes, just because Sherlock wanted to hear John's voice again, he rigged the phone booths(with the "help" of Mycroft)to ring whenever John walked past. When John answered, though, with a confused, "Hello?"Sherlock hung up before he could hear the "Sherlock, is that you?" and broke down into tears, because nothing was more painful that seeing the only people you cared about suffer because of a threat by a single person.


	5. Going on an Adventure

**Going On An "Adventure"**

**"The Road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began,. Now far ahead the Road has gone, and I must follow if I can, pursuing it with eager feet, until it joins some larger way where many paths and errands meet, and whither then? I cannot say."**

**- Jonathan Ronald Reuel Tolkien**

They were going on a "road trip," or so Sherlock called it. John had thought it ridiculous to call something like going on a case in a city far from London a "road trip." Aranthia had reluctantly gone along, as well, thinking this so-called "trip" might actually be... interesting(and also because Sherlock wouldn't let her stay at the flat by herself if both he and John were going far away or more than a week).

"So where are we going again?"John asked, not trusting Sherlock very much if their destination was a surprise.

"Rotherham," Sherlock told him, "a city lying on the River Don, at its confluence with the River Rother-"

"Yes, I _know _all that, Sherlock,"John interrupted, "but _why_?"

"Didn't I _tell _you, John?"

"No, as I recall, you didn't."

"... Go to sleep, John."

* * *

The case at Rotherham had left them all exhausted (except for Sherlock). But it certainly _was _quite interesting. As it turned out, it had been Declan Biovin's mother's sister who had committed the crime of killing her own nephew. Which really did not make any sense to John, but he just went along with it because Sherlock was just _impossible _sometimes. Just like he always was-impossible, enigmatic, and never, ever boring. The list could go on and on and on in John's opinion. But Sherlock was John's best friend, and even through all that, they were still best friends. And nothing could _ever _change that, no matter what happened.

* * *

Life was never boring when you were a flatmate with Sherlock Holmes. It was always cases and odd "adventures" and villains with odd motives and always excitement. _"You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it." _Mycroft had been right-he _had _missed the war:the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline that followed when being shot at, not knowing whether it was you or someone else who would get shot... but then _he _got shot, and all of that ended. But then John met Sherlock. His so called psychosomatic limp had miraculously disappeared.

But the miraculous thing was that John had still stayed, even after what Donovan had, even after what everyone else had said about Sherlock. And even then, John still thought that Sherlock was the best friend he ever had. Even then, when he had only known Sherlock for 2 _days, _John had shot a man for him. He didn't know what made him do that for a man he barely knew. All that he knew was that he trusted Sherlock with his life. And nothing could make him change his mind.


End file.
